


log

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: misc. a3 fic collection





	1. itaru & misumi (1474w)

Itaru is sick and tired of having his things stolen. He is hungry and his feet hurt and his mouth feels all funny from the five cans of cola he downed to power his brief foray outside. It's too dark to see -- he still hasn't adjusted to the natural moonlight -- but if he doesn't get his controller back soon he's going to forfeit the match, and there's no way in the world Itaru is allowing himself to have a loss to  _xo_midleagedh0ttie_  on his record.  
  
“Give that back,” he wheezes, shaking his fist at Misumi. Not for the first time, Itaru resents the fact that real life does not go according to the orderly rules of the gaming world. If this were [redacted game no.1], Itaru’s stamina would last far longer than a measly five minutes. He would have some sort of equipment, too, perhaps a Black Hole Burger, which he could throw at Misumi to suck the controller out from Misumi’s curious fingers.  
  
“Triangle, triangle~!”  
  
Itaru can’t actually hear Misumi clearly, because Misumi has a giant slice of Itaru’s ham and pineapple pizza in his mouth -- but he’s heard the phrase often enough to guess. Faced with this sort of difficult predicament, Itaru finds himself reaching for his phone, hovering over Tenma’s number. It’s just that this is the fourth time already today, and Tenma has filming tomorrow. Itaru knows what it’s like to be dragged into a guerrilla war the night before an important business presentation. At least he’d won (take  _that_ , NEO), but there’s no winning against Misumi -- drive him away once and he just takes double pizza the next time he visits.  
  
He contemplates calling Banri, but quite frankly, Itaru doesn’t want to deal with Banri’s stupid  _woff-woff_  laughter. It’s not funny, being chased around day after day. Banri is young and fit. Itaru is a tired old adult with two options before him and no guide to help him out.  
  
Option 1: Give up, and allow video after video of  _xo_midleagedh0ttie_  trashing his score to surface on some sort of 'Top 10 Gaming Fails' compilation.  
  
Option 2: Get desperate.  
  
“Misumi,” he calls sweetly, “if you give that back I’ll swap it for an even better triangle.” Never mind that he has absolutely no idea what constitutes a good triangle. Misumi’s rating system is more difficult to decipher than [redacted game no.2]’s performance point system. Yet Itaru has learned, the hard way, that the only method of getting Misumi to relinquish his grip on a triangle is to sway him with another triangle.  
  
Sure enough, Misumi’s eyes start to shine with a freakishly triangular light. “A triangle swap?”  
  
“Yes,” Itaru promises, scouring his brain for something he can fob off onto Misumi. “It’s a very special triangle.”  
  
“Itaru’s triangles are always triangular! I like them!” As always, the things Misumi says are utterly nonsensical. Itaru isn’t touched at all.  
  
If he were Tenma, this would be the end of it. Tenma would say something like ‘w-well, if you’re going that far, it can’t be helped!’ and then spend the rest of the night diligently searching for nice triangles. Then he’d catch a cold and have to delay filming for a week, and nobody would be happy because Tenma under house arrest is an absolute nightmare to be around.  
  
If he were Banri, he’d have been able to point to something -- a leaf, or a stray cloud -- and happen to stumble upon a yet-unseen network of triangles that make Misumi’s entire face light up. Banri is a cheat.  
  
Itaru plays games the honest way -- with time, and effort, and indoors, without getting his hands dirty. He can’t think of a single triangular item he’s happy to give away. Pizza -- out. Energy drinks -- out. Games and game consoles -- definitely out.  
  
In this sort of situation, there’s only one thing to do.  
  
“It’s back in my room,” he tells Misumi, putting on his best sincere face. “You have to come with me to see it.”  
  
“Okay!” Misumi agrees readily, running up the wall and jumping in through the window like one of Itaru’s favourite characters in [redacted game no.3]. It’s impressive, but Itaru wishes Misumi could have carried him in, too, so he wouldn’t have to go the long way around.  
  
Part of Itaru wishes Misumi would carry him around everywhere. It would make life so much easier, and he could have both hands free to play [redacted game no.4].  
  
-  
  
When he gets back to his room, Misumi is still holding the controller. To make matters worse, he’s picked up another slice of pizza  _and_  the tuna onigiri Itaru specifically asked Omi to squeeze round instead of triangular.  
  
“Omi’s onigiri are delicious~” Misumi says cheerfully, in response to Itaru’s aggrieved whine. “He squeezes all the rice grains into triangles~”  
  
Itaru could cry.  
  
“Where’s the special triangle?” asks Misumi, slipping under Itaru’s arm as he buries his face in his hands. “Is it that one?”  
  
He points to Itaru’s first-edition, now out-of-print copy of [redacted game no.5]. “ _No!_ ” Itaru yelps, dashing over and hugging it to his chest. “This one’s mine!” He forces a smile onto his face. “I’ll get  _veeery_  angry if you touch this one, understand?”  
  
“Okay~!”  
  
That word means nothing to Misumi; Itaru knows this from personal experience. Misumi seems to understand somehow what sort of things he can and can’t get away with, which means that almost nothing is off-limits for him, because it is frustratingly, infuriatingly difficult to get seriously cross with him.  
  
Itaru still hasn’t thought of a good triangle. “One moment,” he says, giving in, and texts Banri. Help.  
  
The string of laughing emojis Banri sends back doesn’t make him happy at all, but the short message after is like picking up a surprise revive before the final boss battle of [redacted game no.6].  _Tell him you need the controller to show him the triangle and then do the punch-punch-kick combo._  
  
Itaru doesn’t really see it. Still, Banri has good game sense. He’s trustworthy up until Itaru runs off and picks up all the prize items himself, and then he’s so ruthless it’s actually impressive. At the very least, it’s worth a try. “Come here now,” Itaru coaxes, slinging an arm around Misumi. He gropes for the controller in the vain hope that he’ll be able to snatch it back without going through with Banri’s suggestion, but Misumi evades him with such agility it’s got to be on purpose. “It’s a special triangle because it only appears when certain conditions are met,” Itaru continues. “Like a quest.”  
  
“A triangle quest?” Misumi asks, predictably.  
  
“Exactly. Give me back the controller and I’ll show you.”  
  
Once his fingers are safely around his precious possession once again, Itaru is tempted to simply kick Misumi out, but unfortunately this tactic, too, has been proven ineffective through trial-and-error.  
  
“Triangle~”  
  
“Triangle,” Itaru agrees, settling down onto his couch. He has one minute left to destroy this guy. Normally, it’d take someone in his situation maybe three minutes to fully deplete their opponent’s health bar, but Itaru is good, okay. If there’s one thing he’s confident in, it’s his ability to take out the trash on time.  
  
He takes a deep breath in.  
  
 _“…Take that, you -- ”_  
  
 _[the following section has been omitted due to graphic depictions of violence and foul language]_  
  
At the crucial moment, under Misumi’s awestruck gaze, Itaru presses the buttons --  _punch punch kick_. It’s a combo that real-life Itaru could never execute, a thrilling exhibit of skill and expertise that leaves his opponent in tatters on the arena floor. He leans back with a smirk. “Who’s hot now,  _xo_midleaged_?”  
  
In the first place, it’s downright rude to call yourself middle-aged when you’re only twenty-five.  
  
“Amazing!” Misumi claps enthusiastically. “Itaru, that was a wonderful triangle!”  
  
Itaru still doesn’t understand, but he has his controller back and Misumi seems happy, so he’ll have to remember to thank Banri later.  
  
“Can I have it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The triangle.” Misumi points to the screen. “You said I could have it.”  
  
“Wha – oh, right. It only appears when I tell it to,” Itaru explains smugly. “I’ll show it to you whenever you like. I can even teach you how to do it.”  
  
Misumi is quick and his fingers are nimble. If Itaru can get him into the gaming pit, he’d likely grow into a challenging opponent.  
  
“Itaru, you’re kind!” Misumi snuggles up closer and hugs Itaru tight. “And you can make triangles appear when you want them to!”  
  
Itaru may be just a little touched.  
  
“Alright, watch me closely. See this weakling? We’re gonna pound him into the dirt -- ha,  _maruchi_? What, is he trying to sound cute? Eat this – wait, don’t hug me so tight; I can’t move properly --  _Misumi_!”


	2. tenma & izumi (2026w)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (spice of life zine submission)

It happens, of course, on the hottest day of summer, when even the sunflowers are wilting in the fields, and the few square metres of shadow scattered along Veludo Way have become prime real estate for the actors performing their usual skits by the roadside.

“I need someone to go with me to the supermarket.”

All the hairs on the back of Tenma’s head stand on end. He stops peeking at Itaru-san’s phone and raises his head with the tiniest flame of hope in his eyes, but the Director isn’t even pretending to consider the numerous alternative options in the room. “No,” Tenma says, attempting to sound forceful and persuasive, as described on page twenty-two of _Love Yourself: A Softie’s Guide to Saying No!_. “I’m busy.”

She gazes at him, unimpressed. “Tenma-kun, you are watching Itaru-san play fighting games.”

“N-No I wasn’t,” Tenma blusters, casting his eyes around for a better excuse. “I was just about to read through the script for my next drama!” He picks up the booklet and waves it around. “I’m a famous actor, you know? I have to prepare thoroughly.”

The Director opens her mouth to argue, but before she can say anything, Juza-san walks into the room. He takes one look at the two of them glaring at each other fiercely and shakes his head. “Has anyone seen my history paper – oh, there it is. Thanks, Tenma.”

Tenma looks from his now-empty hands to the Director’s smug grin. “No,” he tries again, but his voice is wavering now. According to _Love Yourself_ , this is the first sign of an impending loss. “Everyone else here is just as free as I am!”

Itaru-san barely looks up. “I’m teaching some snot-nosed brat a lesson in humility.”

From the dining table, Homare-san huffs out a joyous laugh. “I am waiting for the waters of poetic inspiration to flow upon me and awaken my genius!”

“See?” the Director says. “Everyone else seems busy.”

 Banri-san snorts. “Just give up, Tenma. Serves you right for siding with Itaru-san.”

“I’ll kill you, small fry.” Itaru-san jabs at his phone screen ferociously and Banri cries out in dismay. Tenma feels a spike of vindictive joy at the sight. Banri-san might be able to beat up Itaru-san ten times over in real life without suffering a single scratch, but in the world of fighting games like _Street Salaryman II_ , the name at the top of the ranking charts is always **[taruchi]**. Tenma’s not stupid; of course he’s going to cheer for the winning player.

“Please,” he tries again, this time aiming for the watery puppy-dog look that had earned him the prize of _Best Child Actor_ three years in a row, but the Director is made of stronger stuff than the panel of four septuagenarians that had been officiating that contest. 

“It’s special sales day,” she says brightly, as if that explains everything, and Tenma will never admit it out loud, but he’s never been able to refuse _her_ puppy-dog eyes.

 

Still, not even the Director can persuade the sun to stop setting the concrete aflame, and so here he is, Sumeragi Tenma, famous actor with sixteen years of acting experience under his belt, reduced to trudging along under the sweltering sun so he can sell himself to retirees for a ten percent discount. On foot, at that! Tenma thinks he deserves some sort of prize for all the sacrifices he makes. A week off from curry, or a month of Tsumugi-san’s tutoring services all to himself.

The Director glances at him, worried. “Tenma-kun? Do you need to sit down for a bit? You look a little tired.”

Tenma did not star in _Modern Arabia: The Prince of Tiger High School_ to be bested by a mere sun. “This is nothing,” he says, puffing his chest out. “I-It can’t be helped; since you were desperate, I’ll make sure we obtain everything on this list.”

“That’s my Tenma-kun!” The Director beams at him, skipping slightly as she walks now. “If we can snatch the beef cubes for half-price, I can sneak in that special sauce Sakyo-san wouldn’t let me boy, and that means we can have curry on Tuesday and Wednesday as well, and…”

He stares in horror as she begins counting the days on her fingers, his dread growing when she runs out of fingers on one hand and starts up on the other. He half-hopes the beef cubes are already sold out, but now that he’s bragged about it he can’t allow himself to achieve anything less than complete victory. Sighing, he shakes out his shirt, wipes the sweat from his arms, and tears the shopping list into two parts. “I’ll handle the beef cubes, lettuce, white rice, salt…Do we really need salt? Isn’t the sauce already salty?”

When he looks up from the list, the Director is covering her mouth, acting as if he's told her he doesn't want curry for dinner (which he has, actually – multiple times in fact, to no effect). "Of course it's important," she exclaims, putting her hand to her mouth. "Salt isn’t simply for flavour, you know; it actually draws out the moisture when you want to brown meat or crisp skin, and there are different types of salt that you add at different times during the cooking process, too.”

Tenma tunes out after a minute or so, when the Director starts using words with a few too many syllables for his tired mind. Naturally, he’d understand if he paid attention; he's just exhausted from filming all weekend. If he slips on a facemask and his fourteenth-favourite pair of sunglasses to purchase _The Beginner's Guide to Culinary Science_ after school on Monday, that’s an unrelated and preferably top-secret affair.

“Interested in becoming a gastronome, are we?” says the kindly uncle behind the counter as Tenma takes out his credit card to pay for his purchase.

“I-I’m not particularly interested or anything!” he protests. “It’s for a friend.”

The uncle laughs for several minutes, then winks at him and nods. Sometimes Tenma is grateful for his upbringing. Although having to watch himself in public all the time can get tiring, there are perks to being a talented, award-winning actor. “Tell your _friend_ , then,” the uncle says, “that they might be interested in the Sunday food market about five minutes from the train station. All sorts of goodies to be found there.”

Tenma files that away for future reference. And if he calls Igawa to drive him there, it’s not because he’s worried about getting lost. Tenma’s not bad at anything, let alone something as simple as navigating the streets. Travelling by car is merely more efficient.

 

*

 

He’s reading over the script for _Maize Runner_ , a daring romance about a farmer who finds himself constantly getting lost on the way to his beloved’s bakery, when the clock strikes 5:00PM and the doorbell starts to ring. Immediately, he leaps off the couch, sprinting past the Director, and yanks open the door.

“Is Tenma-kun alright?” he hears her ask, faintly. “He never usually offers to get the door.”

“Perhaps he’s ordered something he’d rather be kept… _secret_ ,” chimes Azuma-san’s amused voice, and a round of laughter echoes in the background, along with a few claps and high fives. Tenma doesn’t have time to think about what this could mean, because his special delivery is here, and he wants to show it off as quickly as possible.

“Don’t look!” he yells commandingly, then proceeds to spend half an hour trying to unload the parcel. He’s fit, but even his carefully-toned biceps are challenged by the weight of his new possession. By the time he manages to slide it into the lounge, he’s red-faced and puffing, but it’s all worth it to see the look on the Director’s face when he whips the velvet covering off.

“A cherry-blossom pink sea salt slab,” he announces. “Imported directly from the Dead Sea itself.” The rest of the room is looking at him blankly. He’s not surprised that they’re stunned into silence; he hadn’t known such fine salt existed until he had wandered into a hidden stall at the food market. Amidst the endless rows of metallic grey cutlery and boring black pans, the coloured swirls and large blocks had caught his eye immediately. Let it not be said that the Sumeragi bloodline lacked appreciation for fine creations.

“This is the best way to serve food,” the shopkeeper had explained, laying out a delicious-looking spread of plastic sashimi by way of example.

“You can’t fool me!” Tenma had said, having only experienced the sort of fine dining where food is served on plates, wooden platters, and occasionally carefully carved bowls of crystal-clear ice.

The shopkeeper shook her head. “The salt used is completely natural, so each slab has its own unique flavour. As you eat, the salt seeps into whatever you’re cooking – be it steak tartare or a beautiful fillet of rainbow trout. Your chef will know what to do with it.”

“I’ll have to ask him sometime,” Tenma agreed, wondering why they’d never had a family dinner served on salt slabs before.

“It’s quite basic knowledge,” the shopkeeper had assured him, placing her hand on the biggest slab.

Tenma winced. “O-Of course I knew that!” he’d snapped, whipping out his bag, and the rest of that story is marked in black ink on his credit card history.

 

*

 

"You really are an airhead," Yuki says, looking absolutely floored. "Who in their right mind would use a giant block like that on a daily basis?"

Tenma hadn't thought it was _that_ large. They’d had to saw off a couple centimetres to fit it through the door, but that’s because the dorms are old and tiny.

“The dorms have extra-high doors because they were built specially for the theatre, where there are actors who put on plays, which use large items like scenery boards and heavy props.”

Tenma reddens. “I just thought it might be good to spice up dinner with. Seeing how we’re always eating the same curry day after day after day after day after day – .”

Omi-san claps him on the shoulder while the Director opens her mouth to protest that actually, each curry is different, and even when it’s from the same pot the flavour matures over time. “Come now,” he says to the room at large, in that firm, gentle tone Tenma wishes he could achieve when telling the Director he doesn’t want to go to the supermarket with her. Then again, the Director has this way of slipping through everyone’s defences, like grains of fine salt through the shaker, seeping into all of their lives without them even realising it and…changing them, Tenma thinks, with a start. She is nothing like the gigantic slab Tenma had struggled to heave through the doorway, though she shines with the same brilliant sheen; she is neither the unyielding boulders of rock salt that Tenma is going to break his teeth on someday nor the exotic coloured rarities Tenma had almost been convinced to purchase along with his salt slab. Their Director might seem plain and unassuming, but there would be no MANKAI Company without her.

“Director,” he says, willing this revelation to come through in his tone, and something about him – something more than his usual handsome features, that is – must have resonated with her, because she turns and looks him straight in the eye. “Table salt is the most important spice in curry.”

Over Yuki’s floundering _did your brain finally crack under the weight of your enormous ego?_ and the confused murmur that sweeps across the rest of the room, the Director’s eyes widen. They start to sparkle, tiny pinpricks of light that glitter and fade in an instant. She’s captivating.

“I knew you’d understand,” she tells him, with no small hint of pride. Tenma revels in the look she gives him, feeling himself blossom under her approval. For one single moment, everything in the world is perfectly seasoned.

“You do know that salt isn’t technically a spice,” Banri-san says suddenly, in the most snide tone Tenma has ever heard, and the moment is ruined.


	3. banri & izumi ft. muku & juza (1179w)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fire on my tongue (cocoa in my heart)
> 
> (spice of life zine submission)

Banri doesn’t mean to get this attached.

The word _attached_ writhes uncomfortably on his mind, the phantom ghost of metal like ice around his wrists. That damned old man. Some days Banri can still feel the ache in his arm from where he used to have to keep it up uncomfortably over his head because that useless _idiot_ Hyodo had the gall to sleep normally even with handcuffs on. As if the constant nocturnal teeth grinding wasn’t bad enough.

Banri grinds his own teeth in frustration. He’s not _spoilt,_ but over the course of his yet-short lifetime Banri has grown accustomed to a couple of creature comforts: namely, some blessed silence and a bit of privacy when he needs it. Now, sinking angrily into the lounge room sofa, he sorely misses the mundane life he had before Juza I’m-Stupid-But-I-Still-Think-You’re-Stupider Hyodo came and tipped it upside down.

That was a lie. Banri’s not kidding about missing the silence, though. He can’t sleep in his own room with Hyodo breathing so obnoxiously a metre away but the darkened living room feels more oppressive than anything. Everyone in this company is _loud_ , from the kids always causing a ruckus in the yard to the useless adults who think he can’t hear them giggle over spirits at one in the morning. What he finds most frustrating, above the din that drowns out his custom-made headphones, is that he’s grown a bit fond of it after all. Even the Director starting up on her thousandth rant extoling the virtues of fresh cloves makes his heart stir attentively, blood coursing faster through his veins as he relishes the taste of feeling _alive_.

It figures that she’d be the one to find him. “What are you doing down here in the dark?” she asks, her voice tipped with sleep, and she’s swaying on her feet but she still has time to look at him like she cares.

He forces himself to smile, because that’s who he is; life has always gone easy on him. It would be terribly gauche of him to let her worry. “Just getting a coffee.” He eyes her tangled hair and dishevelled appearance. “You look like you need one too. Latte?”

He rattles around the kitchen for a while, opening and closing the same drawer three times over before he remembers he’s supposed to be getting cups out. It’s not his best effort, but he shrugs it off when she laughs at him, feeling the knots in his back smooth out and relax. It’s strange, he thinks. He’d left his room in search of silence, but it’s her laugh that saves him.

“Special for you,” he promises when he’s done, winking at her. He sees the exact moment she places the familiar taste; her mouth drops open in a round ‘o’.

“Nobody ever lets me put spices in my drinks,” she says, forlorn. Banri is almost tempted to agree with her, but then he remembers that he is talking to someone who is just as likely to heap an actual spoonful of curry into her drink as a pinch of garam masala, and so he settles for raising his own cup to his mouth gingerly, tasting the spicy heat prickle at his tongue. Warmth suffuses his whole body. He can’t see the Director’s face clearly, but he wonders whether she feels the same.

And then Hyodo has to tumble through the door with Muku at his heels, the two of them looking incredibly nervous as they hover by the table. The Director doesn’t look surprised to see them, for some reason; she merely nudges Banri out of the way and begins rattling around the kitchen herself. It takes Banri’s sleep-addled brain a moment to piece everything together, but when it does he stares at her, impossibly betrayed. “You’ve been _smuggling them midnight chocolate_ ,” he mouths, astonished. “Never mind the old man; Omi’s going to be so disappointed.”

Muku shifts awkwardly and Hyodo glares, as if everything wrong with the world is somehow Banri’s fault. “You’re drinking something too,” Hyodo says sullenly. Banri can feel his hackles rising, but it’s harder to work up a good murderous aura when you’ve just been dosed with thick, warm caffeine. He waves imperiously at them, shoulders slumping, and the Director slides him a half-smile that looks entirely too knowing for Banri’s liking. He doesn’t understand how simple flirting goes right over her head when she seems to hold every one of their hearts in her pocket. That’s just how she is, he supposes, smiling back at her wryly, and this time (of course, this time) it startles her. Banri presses the cup to his lips again to suppress his laughter.

He and Hyodo are never going to be the sort of people to exchange the usual pleasantries: ‘ _Oh, how’s your day been, idiot Hyodo?’ ‘Not bad, glorious Settsu; just got into a tussle with my amazing roommate this morning because I’m a dumb-dumb and don’t floss my teeth in the morning.’_ Unfortunately, Hyodo’s little cousin is _exactly_ that sort of person, and Banri does actually sort of like him.

“What have you got there, Banri-san?” he asks. Banri hands him the cup wordlessly, watching him splutter on the strange blend of spice and sweet. Hyodo looks as if he thinks Banri has just tried to poison Muku, but he calms when the Director touches his arm lightly. Even as an outsider, Banri recognises the moment when Hyodo relaxes, the tension rolling off him – and off Muku too, by extension. The Director smiles, visibly relieved; it’s difficult to discern how aware she is of her effect on them, but she always puts forth her best effort.

Not even Hyodo’s fool enough to disregard those efforts. “I can give you something for your hot chocolate, too,” Banri offers, not quite knowing why. It probably has something to do with the expectant way the Director is gazing at him, with the calm warmth that’s settled in his stomach since she called out to him. He sprinkles a layer of cinnamon dust and a drop of vanilla into each of the cousins’ cups, feeling oddly gratified when Muku’s face lights up and Hyodo makes a small grunt of surprise.

The Director sidles closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “It’s nice, isn’t it,” she remarks, leaning into him just a fraction. “You’re not the only one who likes a hot drink on quiet nights.” Banri doesn’t know where to start with that, so he looks around instead. Muku is popping yet more chocolate squares into his hot chocolate while Hyodo tries to upend the entire sugar jar into his. Looking back at the Director, Banri finds her watching him closely, and he realises with a flush that she must know what he’d been craving, instinctively, reaching for like a plant towards the sun. She doesn’t say anything more, though, and they lapse into silence, the room quiet but for the clink of their spoons against the cups and Hyodo’s ungraceful slurping.

This time, it’s better.


	4. misumi & izumi (799w)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> small wonders
> 
> (spice of life zine submission)

Izumi finds him crouching by the side of the road, peering at the dirt. He’s sifting it through his fingers, sprinkling it over the ground in a small heaped mound, and without being fully aware of what she is doing Izumi squats down next to him.

“Are you looking for something, Misumi-kun?”

Misumi turns to her with a worried frown. “There are no triangles today,” he tells her, with the pitiful look of a child missing their favourite toy. Izumi casts her eyes around, hoping for something to jump out at her, but she’s never been particularly good at this sort of abstract thinking, and when she points at a knobbly tree branch hopefully Misumi merely fixes here with a flat stare.

No easy way out today, then. The sky is beginning to phase gold, shadows throwing themselves over the sun, and it’ll be cold before long. She looks at Misumi, snug and warm in his well-loved hoodie, then makes the executive decision that even if he is dressed for cold weather, it would be terribly irresponsible of her to let him roam around in the dark by himself. He does that enough as is, sneaking onto the roof with Tsumugi to watch the moon at night. They think she doesn’t know, but if Tsumugi knows something it means Azuma does too, and Azuma is very willing to slip Izumi secrets when he thinks she’s too drunk to remember them.

In any case, a triangle-starved Misumi-kun is even more difficult to handle than the regular Misumi-kun, and far less pleasant at that. So Izumi pulls him gently into the house and begins to scour the living room for anything that might vaguely pass as a triangle. It’s surprisingly taxing work, and after ten minutes Misumi begins to wilt sadly, murmuring _‘triangles~’_ under his breath like a funeral chant. It’s getting late, too, and the whole company will be back for dinner today. Perhaps a distraction is in order.

“Misumi-kun,” Izumi coaxes, bending over so she can take a peek at his face. “Would you like to help me with dinner?”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound particularly enthused about the prospect, but perhaps Izumi will allow him to chop the carrots into triangles tonight, even though watching Misumi with a knife is often terrifying, and triangular carrot slices cannot carry the flavour of the curry sauce satisfyingly at all.

Mourning the loss of her perfect curry sauce, Izumi dumps a handful of spices onto the scales, wishing that Misumi had developed an obsession with something more suited to the production of good curry. Lumpy star anise, for instance, or irregularly-shaped particles of spice powder. “What’s that?” Misumi asks her, oblivious to the funeral ceremony currently underway in her mind, and Izumi instantly feels guilty.

“This is lemongrass,” she says, setting the cuttings aside. “Star anise – oh, would you be able to get a can of coconut milk from the pantry – and annatto, for a bit of colour.” The array of spices slip through her fingers as she tries to scoop them off the scales.

“I’ve got it, Director,” Misumi tells her, snapping to attention immediately. He slams his palm over the counter to stop the annatto seeds from skittering onto the floor. Slowly, cautiously, he uncovers them again – and promptly freezes, lips curving up in a familiar smile. “Look!”

Izumi studies the red seed he shows her. “Yes?” Misumi doesn’t back down, so she squints harder, trying to look at it from the perspective of a boy who had been desperately searching for triangles all day. “Oh! _Oh._ ”

“There are triangles on all sides,” Misumi enthuses, almost dancing with the annatto seed cupped reverently in his hands. Izumi thinks that it’s a bit of an obvious statement considering the seeds are roughly pyramidal, but Misumi looks three thousand times happier than when she had found him, and Izumi finds herself struggling against a smile too.

“You found a triangle!” she says with genuine enthusiasm, steering him away from the bag of carrots she’d been about to leave to his triangularly-inclined mercies. Misumi is happy, her curry sauce is saved, and the day has been improving by leaps and bounds ever since they started making dinner. Curry truly does make the world go ‘round.

Misumi laughs wondrously. “It’s a triangle~!”

It is incredible, how his face has come alight. Izumi looks at the line of his arms, spread out in front of him. She looks at his smile, wide and open, from the glow of his cheeks to the scattered seeds strewn over the counter. Her vision swims.

“So it is,” she says in surprise, feeling as though she has seen something very rare and very precious. “So it is indeed.”

She lets him cut the carrots into triangles anyway.


	5. itaru/tenma (840w)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> future!au

"You sure do love this place," Itaru says, as Tenma catches his hand and drags him through heavy doors into a dimly-lit restaurant. He's not wrong; this is the fourth time they've been this week, and it's only Wednesday. Tenma shrugs, unapologetic.

"You don't mind?" he asks, though it's not a real question. If Itaru truly doesn't want to go somewhere, he hides under his blankets and pretends to be sick – an act which is, for someone who used to be in a nationally-renowned theatre troupe, shamefully transparent. Itaru never protests coming here, mainly because the restaurant is discreet enough to fill its tables with celebrities still in their pyjamas, so he hardly stands out in his old worn jacket and mismatched slippers.

The privacy is one reason they come so often. There's also the matter of the chef's signature rib eye steak and the accompanying hand-cut fries. Itaru still eats cup ramen five nights a week in the middle of a busy period, so Tenma takes every opportunity to stuff him with something substantial – even if neither of them ever order the salad. There are better offers on the menu, and at the table that welcomes them down by the window. "What's the special occasion?" the waiter jokes, as if every other couple here isn't hiding out for the same reason.

Tenma loves this restaurant, but even he can admit that four times in one week is slightly excessive. The reason he's getting away with it – the reason Itaru's not complaining about the hit to his (self-proclaimed) emergency game fund – is both incredibly stressful and, thankfully, very temporary. In the lead-up to the Oscars, Tenma gets photographed so much even he tires of it. The media track his every move, trampling over his precious bonsai in an attempt to capture him brushing his teeth. This, in and of itself, wouldn't be a problem, except that Tenma usually brushes his teeth with Itaru gargling next to him, looking sleep-dazed and honestly more than a little cute. For a professional, award-winning actor, Tenma is also embarrassingly bad at lying when caught off-guard, so everyone who cares already knows he's taken, but they don't know who by yet, and that's the crucial point.

According to Itaru, there are entire message boards dedicated to figuring out Tenma's mysterious other half. "Do you have any idea how often I hear my employees talking about you at work?" says Itaru, shuddering. He looks a little smug, though – he sports the sort of proud smirk that makes Tenma blush more genuinely than in any of his numerous TV dramas. "Basically," Itaru continues, "it's better for the overall productivity of the company if they think we have nothing to do with each other."

Privately, Tenma thinks Itaru just likes watching his reactions when he shows him some of the wilder posts on the conspiracy boards. Tenma suspects that the recurring thread about him being engaged to his bonsai collection might actually be Itaru's own doing. Still, awards season will be over soon; in a couple of weeks he'll be able to go to the convenience store and buy ¥600,000 in magic apple cards without the press calling him a recovering gacha addict the next day. Tenma has been there, no thanks to a certain someone's terrible influence, and he would really prefer to leave that part of his past behind him.

There is admittedly a part of Tenma that wants to bring Itaru to his award ceremonies and show him off to his colleagues. Another, larger part of him kind of likes this in-between they've found, likes seeing Itaru lounge around at home and think  _for my eyes only_. Yet another part of him, more small and uncertain than Tenma would like, notes the slight waver in Itaru's voice when he speaks, the way his eyes slide away as he laughs.  _Thanks for putting up with a no-good adult like me all the time_ , Itaru writes on every anniversary card he sends.  _You're a bit of an idiot, you know. Most people would have figured out by now that my quest rewards aren't really worth the time investment._

Itaru is lucky that Tenma is used to being called an idiot, and also that Tenma is a talented international star who earns enough to support their life plan of avoiding having to do their own chores in addition to Itaru's gacha habits. Tenma is just thankful that he has the opportunity at least once a year to eat steak every night at a restaurant he loves, in the company of a person he would be proud to say he loves.

"I hope you'll let me, one day," Tenma says, clinking his wine glass against Itaru's. "It'd be nice to come here with the Director and everyone."

Itaru tilts his head, puzzled. "If you want. You really do love this place, don't you?"

"I do," Tenma agrees. "The company most of all. I think I could come here every night for the rest of my life, with this companion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Across the table, Itaru hooks his foot behind Tenma's ankle and grins challengingly at him. "Nobody's looking," Tenma says, rolling his eyes when Itaru pouts.
> 
> "You used to get really embarrassed, remember?" Itaru sighs. "'Itaru-san, we're in public!' It was cute. Where did my cute Tenma go?"
> 
> Tenma's cheeks bloom bright against his will. "Damn it," he huffs, when Itaru's grin turns triumphant. "Remember when I proposed and you cried?"
> 
> Itaru waves him off. "You used that one last week," he tells Tenma. "I'm immune now."
> 
> Tenma steals a chip in retaliation. "Want it back?" he offers, holding out his fork. Itaru's eyes narrow, but he leans forward, opening his mouth. Tenma yanks the fork back. "Haha, you fell for it!"
> 
> "......Really, Tenma? Really?"


	6. itaru/juza (629w)

Itaru-san is kind.

It's not the word Juza discovers most people use first when he asks them about Itaru, but he knows from personal experience that it is the one which resounds the most in his own heart. Itaru helps Juza struggle through homework and feeds him small sweets on the way back to the dorms after outside work. "It's a win-win relationship," he says with a wink and a small wave of his hand. _Handsome_ , Juza remembers, is what Itaru's coworkers call him. _A sham elite_ , Yuki says, sounding closer to the truth. Juza struggles to capture in his hands the essence of what Itaru is, but none of the descriptions seem to match with the reality Juza experiences when he looks and Itaru and Itaru looks back.

Since coming to MANKAI Company, Juza has met a number of men he considers more beautiful and elegant than women. Itaru is a man, but his frame is slender, his features the complete antithesis of Juza's. Juza would be lying if he said he wasn't envious, but as someone who has always been feared because of his face, he knows better than anyone that appearances are superficial. Standing on stage has taught him that lesson in even more depth; he learns that movement and posture can transform a spoken line in ways that take his breath away. Itaru's expressions are subtle, when Juza takes the time to observe, but his body moves out-of-sync with his words, and sometimes his busy hands relax in a loose curl that makes Juza's heart swell and thrum inside his rib cage. If he finds Itaru beautiful more often than not, it's because of more than those delicately-balanced features.

Itaru's instructions are always easy to understand, and he has Settsu waiting on him hand and foot, which Juza thinks is amazing. No matter how busy he is with work, he makes time for special rehearsals with the Spring Troupe. On top of that, he'll find time for his hobbies, too.

"I know I'm not yet someone who can stand beside you," Juza says, clutching his tower of pizza boxes close. He's as nervous as he was during that very first audition, back when his mind was full of the fire Muku lit in him, back when Summer's first play seared itself into his memory and left a brand over his heart. He feels just as desperate to prove himself again, to secure for himself this chance to change his life in a way his knows will make it infinitely better. "I know I'm not there yet, but I'll work hard. I'll do whatever it takes. Just give me a chance to prove I can become that person."

Itaru scrubs his hand through his hair. He looks frustrated, but he doesn't direct that towards Juza, even though he'd be justified if he did. "Give me time," Itaru tells him, finally. It's not the  _no_ that Juza knows he wants to give; Itaru probably thinks he's being unfair here, hurting Juza more by dragging things out without intending to accept in the end. He knows that Itaru is hoping Juza will lose interest eventually, that Itaru thinks Juza has the same rose-coloured glasses over his eyes still that make people force him into labels that don't belong to him.

Juza knows better.

Acting a role opens up avenues you had thought were long-since closed. It gives you the chance to become the person you want to become, and even after you leave the stage you take some of that person back with you. If Itaru is willing, even for a short time, to play along, then Juza will do his best to create a performance that Itaru cannot step down from.

All he needs is a chance.


	7. citron & izumi (455w) + masumi/izumi (527w)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the [Full Bloom Fan Letters](https://fullbloomfanletters.dreamwidth.org/) event.

**citron & izumi**

 

Citron's hands are warm like the sun, Izumi notices, and gentle too; they're larger than hers, yet somehow he handles small crafts with more delicacy than she can. She watches him pull needles through felt to bring together strips of cloth into a tiny misshapen shirt and wonders where he learned that particular skill.  
  
There are many things about Citron that remain a mystery to her, even though he himself seems to pour himself out openly to everyone around him. The aunties at the marketplace know his daily schedule; they seem to have organized a schedule of their own to present him with all sorts of delicious gifts. He spins extravagant tales in the evening to Muku and Sakuya, and if even half of them are true he comes from an incredible country indeed. Even so there are times when his face clouds over, his eyes traversing far across the room to a place Izumi cannot follow.  
  
She's been pondering this for a while now. Citron is always there to provide support for the other members of the troupe when they're troubled; he's a true moodmaker, a person who can change the atmosphere with a word. Often, they remain unaware of what he's done until much later, looking back on the day in the solitude of their own beds. He does it so effortlessly it's almost magic - the same sort of magic that was imbued in all the good luck charms he was handing out at Christmas.  
  
Citron's hands are warm; they feel good when they brush against hers, when he takes her hand to lead her down the street in a gentlemanly charade. It must be something in his very personality, the kindness that endears him to everyone around him, the teasing glimmer in his eyes that never fails to cheer her up.  
  
Even if it's just a little, she wants to be able to support him too.  
  
"It's nothing," he says, tugging at the necklace around his neck. Izumi thinks he's probably not even aware he's doing it. Not for the first time, she wonders what significance that charm has to him.  
  
She puts her hand on his. "Well, if it does ever become something, please talk to me about it." It's all she can say, for now.  
  
Citron's hands are warm. Sometimes it feels like they're burning up from the inside, searching for someone to share their heat with. Izumi can't follow Citron when he starts to retreat into his own memories, but she can wait for him to come back to them, with that sad, distant smile across his lips, and she can meet him at the door with a smile and a giant plate of curry sushi just for him.

 

-

 

**masumi/izumi**

 

What he wants is a romance for the ages. He wants to tell their children about how they met, high school sweethearts, sneaking out of their homes to make their vows under the moonlight. In one of the million and one universes he devises, Izumi is his longtime crush and he her servant looking for a white horse, yearning for the power to take her hand and carry her away with him. In another, she's the one who crashes into his world and turns it upside down, knocking his headphones to the floor and opening his world up to the sounds of real life for the first time.

Both of these scenarios have an element of truth to them. He owes Izumi everything, no matter how he meets her, and at the same time he'll never have the reserve to give her everything she deserves. When he thinks about how she's given him a purpose and a family, a reason to look forwards to coming home at night, a place to learn and grow at his own pace -- What can he give her in return?

He looks at his love and finds it lacking.

In his dreams, he finds her earlier: they're childhood friends who've known each other since birth, and as a result he can love her for seventeen years longer. In his dreams, he's older when they meet, with a handful more experiences under his belt, and so this time when she worries he's able to comfort her properly. In his dreams he's an adult, he's a child, he's whatever it takes to gift her the life partner she deserves, but when he wakes up he's still been given so much more than he can ever express.

He thinks he'd like a romance for the ages, the sort people write songs about thousands of years in the future, that get adapted into movies and dramas that spawn hundreds of spin-offs and remakes all dedicated to ensuring the lead couple get their happy ending. He has their whole life planned out, see. Even if he's starting off at a disadvantage, he'll pay all his dues back one day.

But Izumi turns around in her everyday clothes and leads him to the grocery store to buy spices, and she chatters for an hour about the benefits of one spice over the next. Masumi could listen to her voice all day, all week; he could watch her for the rest of his life, just basking in the joy she exudes. Izumi tells him she's happy just with him, that him being himself is the greatest thing he could ever do with her. She tells him that if he keeps loving her how he already does, that's all he needs.

What Izumi wants is a romance with him. When he thinks about it again, that's what he wants for them too. So when he goes to meet her, he brings a simple bouquet only, a standard but elegant ring he chooses with the help of the rest of the company. Because as long as she says _yes_ with a smile, that's the sort of romance he wants to have.


End file.
